my bondlock

Conversations with fic writers
  • Me: Sis, I need medical advice.
  • My Sister MD: ... for fanfiction?
  • Me: Yup!
  • My Sister MD: *sighs*
  • Me: So, listen - I need a body part that, when shot, will bleed lots, and the guy may even pass out from it, but other than the blood loss he'll be alright.
  • My Sister MD: I take it the penis is out of the question?
  • Me: ... the penis is still necessary for important plot reasons later in the story.

“A month after that, letters start showing up. A, B, C, D, on his right knee. E, F, G, H, I, on his left shoulder. J, K, L, M, N, on his right shoulder. O, P, Q, R, S, T, U, on his left knee, in a small, more oval-than-circle shape. V, W, X, Y, Z, square over his heart.”

Redemancy, chapter 1.


Loyal In Adversity by JayEz

John clearly hasn’t let himself go, even if he isn’t all compact muscle anymore like he was when James met him in Afghanistan. Still tries to stay in shape, then…. Or maybe he does this a lot, substituting one war for another, running around London and tracking down criminals.

[Read on AO3]

In the aftermath of the SPECTRE incident, MI6′s Quartermaster goes missing. Despite having walked away, Bond is called back in to help find Q. Along the way, he learns a few things about the seemingly innocent computer genius. His journey will take him into the dark corners of London and across the path of a criminal mastermind named James Moriarty


Bond looked down at his ringing mobile phone and the unfamiliar number on the screen. Something itched in the back of his mind and he couldn’t put his finger on what it was. He pressed the green button and lifted the phone to his ear, saying nothing.

“Hello, 007”

Bond looked around, his eyes searching through the crowd for any sight of the Quartermaster. “Q.”

“You’re wondering if I’m somewhere close, aren’t you?” Through the line Q’s laugh sounded dark, the tone lacking any of the warmth it usually carried and it sent a chill along Bond’s spine. “Don’t bother, James. I’m keeping watch over you from a distance. You should stop looking for me. You’re not going to like what you find.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“I know. You don’t know when to quit and that’s going to be your downfall.”

“What are you planning, Q?”

“Q is gone, James. It’s just Malcolm now. And you’ll find out soon enough. Good luck, 007.”

Valentine's Pride

Ladies and Gents - in honour of Valentine’s Day, I have a short work from last year’s London Pride Parade. It was raining unbelievably heavily, and I walked the way with the most perfect creature alive, and the woman I am now honoured to call my fiancee.

Happy Valentine’s Day everybody, and I wish you all happiness beyond measure. Jen.

“Sherlock, they are outside the door. Literally, outside the door.”

Sherlock glanced towards the window, hearing the noises; they were further down the street, but still within spitting distance, confetti and loud music audible through the torrential rain. “Being outside the door does not compel me to join them,” he stated simply, not looking at John.

When he did, he gaped in surprise. “John, what’re you…?”

“Army vets,” John shrugged; he was dressed nicely, coat over the top, umbrella in hand. “I’m going. Please come, Sherlock. I know it’s shit weather, but that’s not the point, really – in support, even if you don’t want to be around me. You can come watch, if you like.”

From his vantage point on the armchair, Sherlock shook his head slightly. “Enjoy. I suppose I shall see you in several hours’ time, once the tubes are no longer throttled with human beings and you can wend your way back,” he said primly, schooling himself to only smile very slightly when John leant in to kiss him.

The door clicked behind him, and John let out a small sigh. He had honestly hoped Sherlock would come, but then, he wasn’t too surprised.

The rest of John’s party were already in place, greeting John with loud cheers and a turtle-like formation of umbrellas. “UKIP will have a field day, the gays made it rain again,” a younger man said with a laugh. “Where’s yours, I thought he was coming…?”

“Not his scene,” John shrugged, introduced and introducing himself to people he didn’t recognise, one female officer hand in hand with a gorgeous woman in a plunging neckline dress and the widest smile John had ever seen.

Things started moving, and John cheered along with the rest. The atmosphere was absurdly contagious, moving down Baker Street, people joining as they went thought I’d missed it, tubes are hell and John was hug-attacked by people he half-recognised.

Until, that was, the moment a cold hand slid into his own.

Sherlock was standing tall and proud in his coat, purple shirt, and a gorgeous purple scarf.

John blinked.

“This is important to you, yes?” Sherlock asked simply, not waiting for a response. “Ergo, I am attending. Not to mention that I am certain we shall come across my youngest sibling; he has been coming ever since he was a child – I refused, naturally, but Mycroft agreed to accompany him.”

A small smirk. “Sorry, Mycroft at Pride?!” he asked, unable to picture the man in anything other than a suit. “Can’t see it, myself.”

Sherlock’s smile was small, understated. “As I understand it, they originally only came to watch –  they were in the crowd by the barriers, Mycroft had balanced Q on his shoulders. Apparently, Q was plucked up onto a bus by a man in a cocktail dress, showered in confetti, and had the absolute time of his life. If I recall, Q was ten at the time. Mycroft naturally contacted everybody under the sun to assure his safety, and collected him at the end.”

John had to say, the image was one of the more endearing things he could imagine. “Thank you,” he said instead, wondering – as he held onto Sherlock’s hand with only a touch of trepidation – if Sherlock knew that purple was an asexual-associated colour, and if it had been deliberate.

Either way: Sherlock looked quietly terrified for one of the very few times John had ever seen, and almost every time he had seen that fear, it had something to do with John. “I love you,” Sherlock said, with a type of semi-defiance, and held on a fraction tighter.

The next hour or so passed with Sherlock gaining tangible confidence, somehow unconcerned about the infinitude of cameras that passed them by; it was unsurprising, of course, and so Sherlock bit back the worry as the clouds cleared, and the sun appeared for a while.

“Thank god, my feet are drenched,” John muttered, making Sherlock smile brighter than any sunlight.

Which was, of course, the point that Sherlock was almost completely knocked off his feet by a flying human being.

“You came,” Q said excitably, looking Sherlock over with half-disbelief, dressed almost normally barring the glitter covering every exposed inch of skin. “You never come, I thought… and John, fantastic, I knew you’d be around here so I thought I’d come hi, but I didn’t think you’d be here! How are you doing?!”

John had literally never seen Q quite so open. It was a little like he had been allowed to breathe for the first time, the young man flying with sheer energy and tangible joy, hugging John with confidence before abruptly darting back to the side of somebody Sherlock hadn’t noticed until that moment.

“Shit,” John said, almost inaudibly.

Neither of them had ever seen Bond in civvies. The man was in jeans, for the love of god. “Afternoon,” he told them, extending a hand, shaking John and Sherlock’s in turn. “Good to see you both here.”

Sherlock glanced him up and down with tangible disbelief, and John was even less subtle. “Didn’t expect you to turn up.”

Bond grinned, looked at Q with such unapologetic affection it was almost wrenching, and shrugged in a way that more than amply explained everything. “I gather you’ve done this for years,” John asked Q, while Bond and Sherlock opened a subtler dialogue.

Q nodded enthusiastically, looking around him, glasses smeared with rain. “Mycroft took me… Sherlock never marched, he used to say it was just stupid… he supported, though.” John knew his confusion was showing; Q raised an eyebrow, and continued: “I saw him in the crowds, when I was in the parade – he was in a hoodie so nobody could recognise him, but I know it was him. He admitted it when he was drunk one Christmas. Don’t tell him I told you.”

“Never,” John promised, watching his partner out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock meeting his gaze with distant curiosity. He twitched a smile when John coaxed one out of him, and continued to talk to Bond.

From that stage, Bond and Q stayed with them. Q was a little bit like a child on cocaine, darting around, very happily getting his face painted with luminescent pink stuff by a passing pair of men in gorgeous floor-length dresses, the pink accidently transferring onto Bond when Q kissed him happily.

By the time they reached Trafalgar Square, the crowds were enormous, cameras everywhere, Q crowing and Bond holding on him with the expression of a benevolent parent, Sherlock’s grip so tight John knew it would bruise, kissing John abruptly with the power to take his breath away quite completely.


In the crowd, as the rain drizzled overhead, a solitary man stood watching; Q noticed him, nodded with subtler gratitude, Sherlock and John kissing behind him.

Mycroft turned, his umbrella sheltering him from the worst of the rain, each segment coloured a different shade of the rainbow.